The Sword of Bheleu

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  A mission was also to be sent to Ordunin. At first Galt considered going himself, but he quickly realized that the only person he could possibly leave in command in his absence was Garth, and he did not feel ready to do that. Kyrith volunteered to go, but hesitated when Garth refused to accompany her; he insisted he still had business to attend to in Skelleth, primarily finding some permanent solution to the problem of the magic sword. At last, after some debate, she did agree to go, leaving immediately and taking three other overmen with her for escort.

  That left twelve warriors, Galt, and Garth. The warriors were put to work pitching tents and carrying water. Galt was busy every minute overseeing the work. Garth watched as well, but without the, responsibility of command.

  Frima, for her part, served as a messenger.

  The King’s Inn was used as a command post, but throughout the long, wearing day no one spoke with the old man in the back.

  When at last the sun oozed down past the western horizon, the anger and fear of the battle were gone, replaced by fatigue and resolve. Garth, despite his weariness, felt peculiarly refreshed and clean as he settled down for the night on straw from the stable beside the King’s Inn—which, like the tavern itself, had not burned. For more than a fortnight his dreams had been only of destruction, but he had spent this day obsessed with rebuilding—a welcome and healthy change. He was very pleased that he had managed to escape the spell of the Sword of Bheleu.

  He was almost cheerful when he fell asleep.

  Within an hour, though, his dreams began to trouble him. Images of blood and pain began to appear, and everything seemed washed in a red haze. He saw again the image of the high priest of Aghad whom he had fought in Dûsarra and again saw the Sword of Bheleu splatter the priest’s brains and blood across the dirt of the Dûsarran marketplace. He saw himself slaughtering the entire cult of Bheleu with manic glee while thunder pounded overhead. He relived the battle just past and recalled in detail what he had done to Darsen. Finally, he found himself standing alone on a barren plain, holding the Sword of Bheleu before him. He tried to cast it away, but his fingers would not release the hilt; he tried again and became aware suddenly that there was someone behind him. He knew, not knowing how he knew, that behind him was the sword’s rightful owner, the one to whom he could give the weapon and be rid of it once and for all.

  He turned around and saw himself, clad in a loose red robe over black armor, hand held out to receive the sword; his other self’s face was twisted into a malign grin that suddenly poured forth mocking laughter.

  With a grunt of surprise, he awoke.

  He was no longer on his pile of straw but on his feet, facing the part of town where he had left the sword.

  He shook his head to clear it and looked about. He had not gone far; his pile of straw lay a yard away. He settled down upon it once again and considered.

  The dream did not seem wholly natural. It might, he thought, be a lingering remnant of the sword’s influence. Or perhaps he was more vulnerable while asleep, and the sword or its master had sent the dream to him for some reason. Or, of course, it might be an ordinary dream—perhaps a bit more vivid than most, but that could be attributed to exhaustion and the excitement of recent events.

  The oddest feature was that he had started to sleepwalk; he did not recall ever having done that before. That, more than anything else, made him suspect a magical influence. Perhaps the sword was attempting to draw him back, and the dreams had been his own attempt to resist.

  Whatever had caused the dream, it made him uneasy and ruined his earlier contentment. It appeared that he could not be really sure he was free of the sword until it was destroyed. He would have to see to its destruction as soon as possible. He decided not to go to sleep again, but to stay awake until he could discuss the situation with Galt. Fatigue overcame him, however, and he dozed off and slept uneasily.

  He awoke again as the first light of dawn painted the eastern sky with faded pink and lay for a moment watching the stars go out. He had dreamt again, but only in vague and muddled images—all unpleasant. There had been none of the eerie clarity of the first series; perhaps whatever power was affecting him had tired itself.

  He had to destroy the sword. He dared not undertake any of the other tasks that he hoped eventually to complete while its baleful influence lingered. He could not, however, do anything with the sword without Galt’s cooperation, as the guards posted upon it had been told specifically to keep Garth away from it unless Galt was with him.

  At the first opportunity, he would have to take Galt out to the sword, convince him of its power, and then find a way to dispose of it once and for all. Until then, he could do nothing.

  He sat back, leaning against the wall of a burned-out house, and did nothing.

  When Galt awoke he was instantly besieged with decisions to be made, orders to be given, and work to be done; Garth waited patiently. The morning passed. Garth contrived to speak with the master trader turned commander as they ate their noon meal.

  Galt agreed that the sword should be dealt with. He promised that at the first opportunity he would accompany Garth to deal with it. The organization and reconstruction of the village was of primary importance, however; he had to oversee that. When he could spare the time, he would.

  Garth resigned himself to waiting. He waited through the afternoon and evening. That night he slept heavily and dreamed of death; he awoke to find himself standing amid the ruins a few dozen yards from the sword.

  Galt was busy throughout the following day as well, as heavy rains came, flooding foundations, turning the streets to mire, and slowing down all work. Villagers jammed themselves into the tents and the few structures that still had roofs.

  The rain was not wholly unwelcome, though; for the first time the smell of wood smoke subsided, and some of the soot and filth was washed from the ruins. Supplies of drinking water, which had grown scant, were replenished.

  Garth spent the day in the King’s Inn, speaking to no one, sitting in the front corner by the window, watching the people who crowded the room. He did not approach the Forgotten King. He did not see Galt at all. He noticed that Saram and Frima were together almost constantly and that the girl was now more of an aide than a messenger. On several occasions he noticed her staring at him; he guessed she was wondering at his inactivity or perhaps hoping he would return her to Dûsarra.

  The third night after the battle, recalling his experiences of the first two nights, he moved his bedding further from the sword, up into the abandoned northeastern portion of Skelleth. He slept covered by a sheet of oilcloth someone had found in the rubble and felt the rain gathering in pools atop it.

  He awoke several times, each time finding himself upright and moving south, the rain on his face. It was obvious that the rain had awakened him each time, and that only that had kept him from moving further. His dreams were jumbled images in red and black; he relived repeatedly all the bloodier incidents of his life. In stark contrast to the tedious hours he had spent doing nothing while he waited on Galt’s convenience, his nights were full of fury and violence. He fought pirates and raiders on the coasts of the Northern Waste, killed bandits on the Plain of Derbarok,, and slaughtered priests and worshippers in Dûsarra. Throughout, whatever the actual circumstances had been, he found himself gleefully wielding the Sword of Bheleu, laughing as blood spattered about him, killing anything, friend or foe, that got in his path.

  By dawn, he was resolved that he could not wait much longer. If Galt could not spare the time before sunset, he would leave Skelleth and try to get far enough away to escape the dreams.

  Chapter Twelve

  The village of Weideth lay in a small valley in the foothills below Dûsarra and consisted of perhaps two dozen homes and a single combined tavern, inn, and meetinghouse, all arranged around a crossroads. The West Road led up the slope to Dûsarra; the North Road led through the mountains to the Ypri
an Coast; the South Road led to the rich farming villages along the upper branch of the Great River; and the East Road led through the heart of Nekutta to the civilized lands of Eramma, Orûn, Tadumuri, Amag, Mara, and Orgûl.

  Of late there had been a great deal of traffic coming down the West Road and leaving by either the East or the South. Those who had bothered to stop at all reported that they were fleeing from an outbreak of the White Death. There were also stories of great fires, riots, and a heightening in the city’s perpetual internal conflict among the seven cults.

  There had also been more overmen leaving Dûsarra than usual; the Yprian traders had cut short their visits and were turning back their fellows from approaching Dûsarra. No more caravans came down the North Road, and all those that had come before had already returned. It seemed likely that there was not a single overman left in the city.

  The people of Weideth had watched the refugees go through, had offered what aid and comfort they could, and had accepted whatever payment was offered in exchange. They were practical people and saw no reason to refuse good money. The village was wealthy with Dûsarran silver.

  It was three weeks since the plague’s outbreak, and the number of people coming down the West Road had dropped from more than a hundred a day to a mere handful, when the girl in the black robe arrived in the nameless village inn.

  She was young and walked with a limp, the Seer of Weideth noticed when she entered the public room. Her face was hidden by her cowl—that was typical of the secretive Dûsarrans. She carried no personal belongings that he could see; that was unusual for a refugee at this late date. There had been plenty of time now for anyone planning to flee to have gathered a few things together. Perhaps, he guessed, she had converted everything to cash and had the money hidden somewhere beneath her robe.

  She paused just inside the door and looked about. He knew that she was looking for someone specific—he did have the true talent of a seer, though only weakly. That was very odd; how would a Dûsarran know anyone in Weideth? There were no other city-folk in the tavern just then—only him and a dozen of his fellow villagers.

  He was interested. Could it be that she was not a refugee after all?

  The innkeeper had noticed her now and was coming over to speak to her. The Seer watched and had one of his erratic flashes of insight. She was looking for him, the Seer of Weideth. Before he could do anything about this sudden knowledge, she was asking the innkeeper, who pointed him out.

  He put down his wine cup and considered her as she approached the table.

  “I am looking for the Seer of Weideth,” she said.

  “I am he,” he answered. “Have a seat.”

  Made awkward by her injured foot, she took a moment to arrange herself on the offered chair. The Seer looked her over.

  She was olive-skinned, like most Dûsarrans, with thick, curling, black hair which she wore long; a few strands spilled out of her cowl, reaching down past her breast. She seemed pretty, but he could not see clearly the outline of her face. There was something out of the ordinary about her that he sensed rather than saw, an aura of perversity and twisted emotion.

  “I am Aralûrê; I’m a wizard’s apprentice. I was sent here with a message for you.”

  She was lying about her identity, but had indeed been sent to him. He nodded. If it was important, he could worry later about who she really was and why she was lying.

  She hesitated. “How can I be certain you’re really a seer?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “Ask anyone in Weideth.” He knew her uncertainty was due partly to the ease with which he had accepted her lie. When she still seemed unsure, he added, “Your name is not Aralûrê, and you are not a wizard’s apprentice, but you do have a message for me. What is it?”

  “How do you know who I am?”

  “I don’t, but I would be a very poor seer if I could not tell truth from falsehood.”

  That seemed to satisfy her. “I have been sent here to warn you and any other magicians I may find, of whatever discipline, of the actions of a certain overman.”

  “You refer, I suppose, to Garth of Ordunin, who caused so much havoc in Dûsarra.”

  “You know his name?”

  The Seer was gratified by her surprise. “Oh, yes,” he answered. “Am I not the Seer of Weideth?”

  The girl eyed him dubiously. “How much do you know about him?”

  “Tell me what you came to tell me.”

  The Dûsarran considered for a moment, then said, “As you will. It was Garth who loosed the White Death upon the city, you know. He killed a great many people in other ways as well, including several priests. He was responsible for the burning of the market place.”

  “I know all that, and I am sure you know that it is common knowledge. The refugees who have passed through Weideth have kept us well-informed, quite aside from my own abilities. We have an ancient prophecy here that when an overman comes out of the east to Dûsarra he will unleash chaos and disaster upon the world. It would appear that Garth is the overman described, and the White Death the prophesied disaster. What of it? Why have you come here to tell me what I already know?”

  “You did not allow me to finish, my lord. Did you know that the overman is still spreading destruction? Three days ago he destroyed the fortress town of Skelleth, on the northern border of Eramma.”

  The Seer studied the girl. “How do you know that?” He could perceive beyond any doubt that she spoke the truth as she knew it. “Skelleth is a fortnight’s ride from here.”

  “My master has methods of learning what goes on in the world.”

  “Your master is the one who sent you to me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who is he?”

  “A wizard; he prefers not to give his name.”

  “He’s no wizard. Is he a priest, perhaps?” He read in her face that he had guessed correctly. “A priest who seeks vengeance upon Garth?”

  She nodded reluctantly.

  He sat back. It seemed plain enough. One of the Dûsarran cults, unable to avenge itself directly, hoped to recruit his aid in pursuing the overman. He had little love for any of the vile cults of the black city, but if this Garth were in truth disturbing the peace of the world and causing further destruction, then the overman had to be stopped.

  He wondered why the priest had chosen him to contact. Were there no wizards left in Dûsarra?

  Perhaps there weren’t; the plague might well have depopulated much of the city. Reports were vague and inconsistent, since even those still healthy remained in isolation in their homes for the most part.

  Or perhaps this priest had an inflated idea of the Seer’s own power; perhaps the priest did not realize that the Seer’s predecessor, a truly remarkable prophet of great vision, had died and been replaced by a much lesser seer.

  Perhaps ... but there was no need to wonder, when he could ask the girl. “Why were you sent to me?” he asked. “What can I do?”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted truthfully. “My master did not say. He told me to seek you out, and to speak also to any and all other seers, or wizards or magicians I might encounter.”

  Perhaps this priest thought that the Seer would spread the word until eventually the news reached someone in a position to act upon it. That made sense, though he found himself resenting slightly the implication that he was a gossip. As a matter of fact, though there was no way the priest could know it, he would see that the news, once verified, did indeed reach those who could respond appropriately; he would send a message to the Council of the Most High, of which he was a very junior and peripheral member. No priest would know that the Council existed, though; it had been a lucky chance, he was sure, that brought this young woman—whoever she was—to one of the councilors.

  Surely it could be nothing more than that.

  “I see,” he said. “Very well, then. You have don
e your duty.” He wondered if he should pursue the question of her identity, but decided against it. Every sect in the city was dedicated to darkness, in one way or another, and every sect apparently had been affronted by Garth. It mattered little, he thought, which one had chosen to take action.

  There was the question, though, of how word had been received from Skelleth in a fourth the time it took a man with a good horse to cover the intervening distance. Perhaps one of the priests had a hireling wizard with a scrying glass. That might be dangerous.

  It wasn’t his concern, however. He would contact the Council, tell them everything he knew on the subject, and let them worry about it. His place was here in Weideth, tending to the needs of the villagers, guarding and interpreting the prophecies of his forebears.

  He downed the rest of his wine and rose. The girl rose as well. He nodded politely to her and turned to go.

  The Aghadite watched the gray-robed man leave with her contempt scarcely hidden. The fool had hardly questioned her at all! He had asked for no proof, no details of Skelleth’s destruction. He had not questioned her motives nor divined her identity. He had not even taken the trouble to ask her to show her face!

  He was probably a worthless drunkard, she decided, whatever talent he might possess.

  It didn’t matter; all that mattered was that she had done what Haggat had ordered and delivered the message. Her part was finished. She could not imagine what good it could do to inform this third-rate oracle of Garth’s actions—but she was still a novice in the ways of intrigue. Haggat knew what he was doing, she was sure.